


Red Flags

by avearia



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: (also a passing mention), (passing mention), BabyPorcupine_CutebutDEADLY, Casper High shelled out for a proper therapist, Gen, Guidance Counselors, High School, Hypervigilance, Lancer Swears With Book Titles, Panic Attacks, Phic Phight, Phic phight 2020, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychology, Reveal, School Shootings, Secret Identity, Spectra - Freeform, Therapy, Undergrowth - Freeform, babyhedgehog-cutebutdeadly, video games - Freeform, zombiemerlin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23940835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avearia/pseuds/avearia
Summary: Lancer refers Danny to the school counselor, hoping he'll work through whatever issues are keeping him from succeeding in school.The counselor notices A Lot.For the Phic Phight 2020. Prompt by Babyporcupine_cutebutdeadly aka ZombieMerlin.
Relationships: Danny Fenton & Mr. Lancer
Comments: 138
Kudos: 827





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZombieMerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieMerlin/gifts).



> Written for the Phic Phight 2020. I am on Team Ghost. This chapter is 2,027 words. 
> 
> _Prompted by Babyhedgehog-cutebutdeadly aka BabyPorcupine_CutebutDEADLY, aka ZombieMerlin: Danny gets referred to the school counselor (a decent one, not Spectra) by Lancer in hopes of helping him deal with whatever issues he has that are preventing him from succeeding in school. The counselor notices A Lot._
> 
> I love fics that graze the identity reveal trope, don't you?

**Red Flags**  
—

Chapter 1

Lancer knows trouble when he sees it.

"Thank you for staying after class, Mr. Fenton," Lancer says, as he motions to the chair to indicate where Danny should sit. "Do you know why you're here?"

Danny perches on the lip of the chair, bracing for a lecture. His posture reminds Lancer of a statue he once saw in a museum—Atlas, bowed forward, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lancer wracks his brain for what might make the teen look so tired, but beyond the usual suspects (Late night? Bad habits?) nothing springs to mind. The teen doesn't participate in any extracurriculars, doesn't have any big project deadlines looming, and as far as Lancer knows, there hasn't been any trouble at home.

Danny's always been a bit of an enigma.

"I'm here because I didn't get my essay done," says the boy at last.

Lancer's eyebrows rise an inch on his forehead. "That," he concedes, "And also because you were late for my class for the fifth time this week. I know I have you for first, third, and seventh period, but by _The Odyssey_ _,_ Mr. Fenton, this is getting ridiculous." It's only Wednesday, after all.

Danny's eyes flicker to the floor. "Sorry Mr. Lancer," he says. "I'll try to do better next time."

The teacher's lips press into a frown.

See, the thing is, he believes it. Danny really will _try_. He's seen Danny put forth the effort before, and when he really applies himself, the results can be astounding. Danny might not be the prodigy his sister is, but he's got plenty of intelligence in his own right, a unique way of approaching the world, and an unusually high work ethic when he decides to commit.

But somehow, every few months, they end up back here at square one. Multiple tardies, missed assignments. Falling asleep in class. Without an intervention, Lancer fears that Danny might stop coming in entirely. Something is keeping Danny from staying on track, and for the life of him, Lancer can't figure out what it is.

"Mr. Fenton, is there something going on that I don't know about?" Lancer asks at last. "By all rights, you should be easily passing my classes. And yet—"

Danny stiffens at the mere _suggestion_. "Nothing," he denies, a little too quickly. "It's nothing. I'm sorry. I just thought the essay was due on Friday, that's all. If you can give me an extension…"

"I don't give extensions. You know that." Lancer gives the boy a long, hard stare, knowing full well that Danny is hiding something. " _Although,_ if there are outside factors affecting your schoolwork, accommodations can, of course, be made."

Danny fidgets in his seat, before he settles, at last, into a defeated pose. "No, Mr. Lancer."

Lancer holds for a moment longer, hoping Danny will change his mind, will explain whatever issues or circumstances are holding him back. But the promise of potential leniency for his missed essay—and any future assignments—doesn't seem to be enough of a temptation to share whatever is ailing him.

Danny stays silent.

"…Very well," Lancer says at last, pulling out a pen. "Here is a worksheet you can do for a little bit of extra credit - along with a practice test you can use to study for the exam tomorrow." He hands the two sheets to Danny, along with a permission slip after he finishes signing it. "This will get you to your fourth period class without a tardy mark. Don't abuse it. And don't be late to seventh."

Danny takes the papers and mumbles a thank you before gathering his things and leaving. Lancer watches him go, at a loss for what to do.

Lancer knows trouble when he sees it. Too many bright, promising kids have fallen off the back of the wagon on his watch— so Lancer definitely recognizes the signs, however subtle they are.

But what else can he do?

* * *

"He's a good kid," Lancer insists, holding Danny's file. "He just needs a little help, that's all."

Across the desk, the school counselor, Connor Matthews, puts his face in his hands and groans.

"…You _do_ owe me," Lancer adds, suddenly worried that the answer might be 'no.'

"I do," he agrees. "I do. _Christ,_ though, Arnold, couldn't you have picked a better week? I am up to my neck in traumatized kids! There've been five on-site ghost attacks this week—and it's only Wednesday!"

Something about that argument seems ironic, but Lancer isn't exactly sure _why_. He hums. "I'd make it worth your while," he argues instead. "Dinner on me, perhaps?"

Connor rubs his face, then lets one hand drop, so he can fix Lancer with a tired blue stare. His eyes are shadowed and shot through with veins. The stress makes him look much older than his thirty-something age affords him. Being a counselor at Casper High is certainly no walk in the park.

"Must be some kid," he says at last, "If you're calling in a favor. What makes him so special?"

Lancer hesitates.

"He's…" the teacher casts about for words. "He has a good heart."

"Most kids do," Connor points out. "Until it's beaten out of them by the public school system."

"Hey now—"

"You come into my office, you hear my truth." Conner cuts him off. "And deep down, you know it too. You see hundreds of good kids every day. Hundreds that stumble and fall short of their potential. Why did this one catch your eye?"

Lancer crosses his arms, deep in thought. He works his jaw back and forth, trying to put words to the nameless swirl of worry in his gut.

"Maybe I'm biased," he says at last. "His sister, Jasmine, was one of my best students. Maybe I'm holding him to a higher standard than I should."

Connor just sits there, head tilted to the side, waiting. He's known Lancer too long, and is too good at his job, to mistake the excuse Lancer threw out as the unfiltered truth. Eventually, his patience pays off.

"…But I don't think so," Lancer admits. "I've seen Danny meet—and exceed—my expectations before. It's just… it's like something is holding him back. Getting in the way? But I can't figure out what, and he won't talk to me. I thought a more experienced eye like yours might help."

Connor sits back in his chair. "And you're sure about this," he says. "You're sure he wants help?"

"He deserves help," Lancer says.

"So do all the kids on my waiting list," Connor says. "I've got dozens. This school is chock full of them. Kids who suffer from anxiety. Depression. PTSD. Because of the daily ghost attacks, because _reality_ around here gets bent out of shape every Tuesday or so—because a _dragon_ just burnt their college admissions portfolio, and submissions are due in three weeks."

Connor pauses here, and raises a finger. "But you know all this. And still you're asking me. So, why?"

Lancer's mouth twists unpleasantly.

"When I first dealt with Danny, I admit I thought he was a troublemaker." Lancer says. "From trespassing, to vandalism, to destruction of school property—you name it, he's done it."

He hands Danny's file—his permanent record—to Connor. The man flips it open and jerks back a little, face set in a frown. The file is earmarked with dozens of disciplinary notes, redlines, detention slips. It's quite a thing to behold. "And you think this is a cry for attention?"

"Quite the opposite, really," Lancer says. "This behavior started roughly the same time as his trouble in school. I think they're linked—though I don't know if one problem is causing the other, or if they stem from the same source. But like his school problems, whenever Mr. Fenton runs into trouble, he just shrugs and takes the punishment. No arguing, no backtalk. Like he's trying to sweep it under the rug. He's trying to _hide_ his outbursts, not make a spectacle of them."

Connor frowns. "If the two are linked, then we should see an uptick in incidents like that, too. What kind of trouble has he gotten into lately?"

"Nothing beyond a few tardies," Lancer says. "But I worry they might start up again soon, if we don't do anything."

"Or," Connor shrugs, "He's been doing it all along, and you just haven't caught him."

"… _A Study In Scarlet_ _,_ Connor, don't even joke."

A sigh. "You know it's a lot harder to help a kid who doesn't want it," Connor points out. "I might be wasting resources here."

"I doubt he needs much," Lancer argues. "He's pulled himself out of this pattern before. Maybe if we just lend a hand—offer a friendly ear, teach him some basic time scheduling tools? —then we can stop him from falling too far."

"If it'll be _that_ easy, then why bring him to me at all?" Connor asks.

"First, because Mr. Fenton certainly won't talk to me - given that I'm usually the one doling out his punishments."

"Fair."

"And two:" Lancer says, "…Because Danny is the type of kid who slips through the cracks if you let him. I'm not going to make that mistake this time."

Connor sits back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

"All right," he says at last. He dons a pair of reading glasses and casts a dry glance down, again, to the manila file laying open on the desk before him. "Danny seems like the kind of kid who'd _normally_ get put on my radar anyway, if I didn't have such a flood of other, genuine cases, I suppose. But you owe me. Dinner, restaurant of my choice. Deal?"

"…Deal."

"Also," Connor adds, "On a completely unrelated note, I need to borrow your Xbox."

" _Ready Player One_ , are you serious? _Again?_ "

Connor crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, not budging an inch.

"…Fine." Lancer sighs. "Just _try_ not to beat my high score in DOOMED this time?"

"No promises."

* * *

Danny is late to seventh period, but so is everyone else, largely due to yet another ghost attack in the halls of Casper High.

There's a tree growing out of the floor in the middle of the hallway now, flanked by dozens of twining plants and venomous flowers that snap at those who get too close. The truant officer directs a detour for anyone trying to get into the B Wing. Danny trails in later than most, with thorns clinging to the hem of his jeans as a tell-tale sign of how close he'd been to the action.

"Mr. Fenton," Lancer clears his throat as he spies Danny trying to sneak in, heading to his usual seat.

Danny stops in place and hangs his head. "… _I am gonna_ kill _Undergrowth._ " He mutters.

Lancer blinks at the odd turn of phrase before brushing it off to the side. "A word, please?"

Danny follows Lancer into the hallway, marching like he's headed to the gallows. The door closes behind them, leaving them alone in the quiet hallway. From his pocket, Lancer produces a hand written hall pass.

"Instead of attending English today, I'd like you to take a trip to Mr. Matthew's office," he says, handing off the paper. Danny, clearly expecting a detention, snaps his head up, startled.

"I—" he begins, and squints at the hall pass. "Who's Mr. Matthews?"

"Connor Matthews. Casper High's new counselor." Lancer explains.

Danny goes very still. "You're sending me to a therapist?"

Lancer nods.

The teen rereads the hall pass, then turns to give Lancer an almost desperate look. "…Uh, I think I'd rather just get detention, please."

"Off you go, Danny." Lancer presses a firm hand at the boy's back and points him to the offices. "No detours."

Danny sulks, but does what he's told, trudging off one way - before belatedly remembering the botanical blockade and pivoting on his foot towards the detour. Lancer watches him exit through the fire escape, then shakes his head and sighs.

He hopes Mr. Matthews can be of some help.

He _hopes_ he's made the right choice.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite getting the lowdown from Lancer, and reading Danny's rather _decorated_ permanent record, Connor Matthews still isn't sure what to expect of his newest patient.

But whatever preconceived notions he'd started to form, they're thoroughly shattered after the first session.

"Daniel Fenton?" Connor calls, leaning out his door.

There's only one kid in the waiting room, so there's not much room for error. But the kid is so ordinary in contrast to what the permanent record suggests, it makes him hesitate. The kid seems calm, if a bit grumpy, and is chewing on the end of his pencil as his head bows studiously over the worksheet in his lap.

Still, the teen's head snaps up when called. "Uh, Hi," Danny says, straightening.

Connor doesn't miss the way Danny sizes him up, the teen's blue eyes glancing from Connor's windswept brown curls, to his sweater vest, all the way down to the tattered sneakers, and back. The boy's shoulders relax a fraction.

"Uh, Mr. Lancer sent me—" he digs out the hall pass.

"I know. Sorry to keep you waiting." He'd meant to meet Danny right off, but another ghost attack in the halls meant he had to talk a student through a panic attack. It hadn't been a long delay, but still - courtesy. Connor motions Danny to the door. "Come in."

Danny stuffs the worksheet into his backpack - wait, is that a ziplock in there? Why is Danny keeping his homework in a ziplock bag? - gathers his things, and stands. He runs a restless hand through his messy black hair. "I, er, don't know what Mr. Lancer told you, but this is seriously not necessary," he starts, stepping into the counselor office. "I'm fine."

The second thing Connor notices - a troubling detail - is the way that Danny checks his corners. With the first step through the door, Danny's head makes a series of small movements - right, up, down - left, up, down - right, left.

Connor goes still. That behavior - it's something he's used to seeing from _cops_ , when he worked as a therapist for the S.F.P.D. before moving to Amity Park. Checking to make sure a room is empty of threats, then making note of the exits. Danny's eyes also linger for a second on the lone security camera tacked to the ceiling before turning to face him.

Connor holds in a sigh. They haven't even sat down yet, and Danny's already thrown his first red flag.

_Hoh boy._

"Rest assured, Danny, this isn't a place of judgment." Connor says.

"Sure," Danny replies, in a tone that says he suspects otherwise. He heads in, grabbing the chair opposite of Connor's desk meant for student visitors. "Listen, no offense, but I've done this dance before and I have to say. Not a fan."

Connor puts his hands in his pockets. "If it was with that crock, Spectra, I don't blame you," he says.

That earns him a sharp look from Danny. "Crock?' he repeats.

Connor gives a sardonic smile. "After she disappeared, the administration dug into her work history. Her 'Accolades' were pure bullshit. Did you know she was running a scam? She'd bully the kids in her care until they were too depressed to talk back or act out." He explains. "Made her track record look _stunning,_ I'm sure."

Danny's looking at him now, straight on. Good. He's got the kid's attention.

"Fun fact," Connor adds, "Did you know she slipped up? One school in Missouri, she went too far, pushed the wrong kid over the edge. The boy came back with a gun and shot her and her assistant point blank. _Very_ curious how Casper High managed to employ someone who was, allegedly, dead."

A startled snort escapes Danny before the kid turns away. "Only in Amity Park, I guess."

 _Ah_. Connor casts a look at the boy. _So_ _he_ _knew_.

Okay. So. Given Danny's behavior, and demeanor, Connor suspects the traditional approach isn't going to work with this one. Time for phase two.

"Feel free to leave your bag anywhere," Connor tells him, and brushes past Danny, ignoring the desk entirely. It's not the only fixture in the room; along with a standard office desk and accompanying chair, Connor's got a long sofa and a low wooden table along the far wall, some beanbags scattered about, and an admittedly old tv on a wheelie-cart crammed in the corner. This, he approaches, snatching up the remote and turning on the device.

Danny seems confused. "…What?"

"Grab a beanbag," Connor says, leaning to unpack Lancer's Xbox from its fancy carrying case. "Or a pillow. Whatever works. It won't take me long to set up."

Danny stands there awkwardly, watching Connor plug the wires into the back of the tv.

"Are you telling me that Lancer… let me ditch English class to come here and play video games with you?" he asks at last.

"Well. That wasn't the _exact_ agreement, but his wording was rather vague." Connor says. "He didn't _not_ say I could play video games with you."

Danny stops to puzzle out that double negative, frowning.

Connor gestures to the tv. "Hey, if you're not interested, you're welcome to head back to class. I can't exactly stop you. But I suspect you'd rather stay."

Danny hesitates. "What's the catch."

With a click of a button, the console thrums to life. "The catch is… you're stuck as player two? C'mon, kid. Grab a seat. I've only got this thing for a week, tops, before Arnold starts complaining and asking for it back."

"Who's Arnold?" Danny asks, reluctantly dropping his backpack near the visitor's chair and venturing up to the TV.

Connor laughs a little. "You don't think Lancer's first name is actually _Lancer,_ do you?"

"…This is taboo information you've just handed me," Danny warns.

Connor tosses him a controller. "Do with it what you will."

When Connor first met Lancer, he'd actually pegged the man as a gamer, much to the teacher's surprise. What Connor _hadn't_ expected was that Lancer kept a spare console and a stash of games on hand at all times. He had a fair rig at home, but sometimes his mother "dropped by" to visit him for "a few weeks", and a man could only take so much. The school was typically quiet after hours, offering sanctuary and the plausible cover story that he _might_ be grading tests. It was an open secret, though. Connor had it on good authority that Lancer sometimes even broke out the 'Box between classes, as a stress reliever.

Despite the man's vast library of games, Connor handpicked five games beforehand, just in case. He offers these to Danny now, splaying out the cases. "Your pick."

Danny settles into his blue beanbag, eyeing the options. DOOMED. Fable. Manhunt. Silent Hill 2. Journey.

"Eh—" he says, and plucks DOOMED from the pile. "This'll do, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Are we allowed to use cheat codes?"

"Like I said. This is a no judgment zone."

"Alright."

The cheat codes Danny uses, much to Connor's curiosity, are all to give his character cosmetic changes and then lets him skip a few of the early worlds, bypassing the tutorials. Nothing to depower the enemies, or level himself up, beyond giving himself a wicked looking blaster that's more flash than substance. It's not behavior that matches with the slacker cliché that Lancer had painted him with.

"Tucker, Sam and I used to play this all the time," Danny tells him, knocking off the mini-boss, a cyborg biker weilding a chainsaw, with relative ease. "It's a bit too easy now."

"You're welcome to try a new game." Connor says. "Manhunt's a violent shooter—"

"Hard pass on that."

Well, good. Not that Connor buys into the whole 'violence in video games' argument, but he's picked these games to assess Danny's mental state. To get a rough baseline on his moods. And Connor certainly can't say that he is disappointed that Danny chose to steer away from gleeful, cathartic murder.

"Silent Hill 2's a horror game, light on gore, heavy on mystery and atmosphere," - Danny shakes his head at that; cool - dodged the depression video game, "Journey's a relaxing experience, for the most part…"

Danny's head tilts in a _that's fair_ nod. "Could use some of that I guess."

Connor makes a mental note. Stress. Gotcha. "And Fable's a story-based fantasy game where your choices determine who you become."

"I played that one. Didn't like it." Danny scrunches his nose up. "I never made it past the opening."

This is odd, because the opening is far from difficult. "Why not?"

"Didn't like the whole—" Danny flaps a hand. "Backstory. Where your family is killed by bandits or whatever and you're too weak to stop it."

Hm. Okay. That's…

Connor sets that thought aside for now. That's something that feels like a piece of a larger picture, something to untangle later. "Should I put in Journey, then?" he asks instead.

"Nah." Danny settles in, rubbing his left knee a bit as if it's sore. "Haven't had the chance to play this in a while. It's nostalgic."

"Ah, too busy lately?"

"Mmm." Danny says, apparently too smart to say _yes_ and risk Connor asking _with what?_

Kid's gonna be a tough nut to crack.

The two of them play in relative silence for exactly four minutes, during which Connor positions himself at an angle where he can watch the clock, the screen, and Danny's face with ease and clarity. Those minutes of observation are enough to determine that Danny 1) does not have an attention problem, easily keeping up with gameplay while fielding Connor's occasional remark or request, and only fidgets to rub his left knee from time to time; 2) doesn't have any readily-apparent anger issues, as he deals with the frustrating flying enemies on level four with brisk movements and a clenched jaw, 3) has some pretty deep bags under his eyes, dark enough to rival Connor's own (but he's a teenager - so that tells him very little, in the end), and 4) seems to have some plant residue clinging to his jeans. From the ghost attack, maybe?

Connor waits until they enter the boss chamber before clears his throat. "So I would probably be remiss if I didn't ask a few counseling related questions while you're here, so. How was your day?"

"You're asking now? _Really?_ " Danny says flatly as the Boss - a giant mecha worm - roars onscreen. "Your timing is terrible."

"As good a time as any." Connor says. His timing is excellent, actually, because while he's distracted with a complex task, Danny won't have the leisure of overthinking. "So?"

Danny shakes his head, quickly scouting the game arena for some cover. "My day could've been better," he admits.

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"Not particularly."

"I figured." Connor pauses a moment to toss a grenade at the Boss monster. "I hear you were late for third period."

A hesitation. "And seventh," Danny admits, apparently thinking Lancer will rat him out later, anyway.

"Did you get caught up in that ghost attack?"

A snort. "You could say that."

He takes it with a blasé attitude, which tells Connor that he, like too many other kids at this school, are far too overexposed to danger. Connor shakes his head. And to think, when he moved here, he thought working as a school counselor would be _easier_ than working as an on-call therapist for the police department.

The blasé attitude could be from disinterest or from repression, though. So Connor asks, "What do you think of Phantom?"

Danny flinches. His character onscreen takes a pretty nasty hit.

"That's a pretty loaded question, isn't it?" he asks.

"Is it?"

"Given that my parents are the town's resident ghost hunters?" Danny huffs. "Yeah. Super loaded."

Connor sits back. "I… didn't know that, actually," he admits. Fenton's a pretty common surname, so he hadn't assumed. He studies Danny's face, surprised at the bitterness there.

"Yeah, well, they are." Danny furiously taps the buttons, trying to dodge a barrage of attacks. Connor, still at full health, doesn't bother, focusing more on Danny's face as he goes on. "And if I show even a little bit of positivity for Phantom, word gets back to them that their son is a _fan_. And if I don't, then you peg me as cynical and closed minded. So. Let's just skip that question, okay?"

"Danny," Connor says, pausing the game. Danny makes an affronted noise as the action stops onscreen. "Danny look at me."

Reluctantly, he does. Connor tells him, "Nothing you say to me - short of, say, verbally making a threat to yourself or others - will ever leave this room. Understood?"

"Psh," Danny scoffs.

"That includes secrets," Connor says, "Sexual orientation, sexual activity, drug use, past crimes, past abuse - anything that doesn't currently, immediately put someone in danger is fair game."

Danny doesn't respond to that.

Connor leans back, fixes Danny with a level look, and tries again. "So what do you think about Phantom?"

Danny's thumbs fiddle with the joysticks, the controller useless in his hand. "Sam's a pretty vocal supporter," he says at last. "Tucker is, too."

Connor nods and waits.

"My ex hates him," Danny adds. His eyes go to the side. "Maybe she should."

Another long stretch, where Danny's eyes go distant, and he seems to be lost in something. Connor prompts, "And you?"

Danny presses his lips together.

"He could do better." He replies.

The response sounds personal enough to be genuine, but vague enough that it feels like Danny's playing on safe ground. Connor leans back. "Yeah, he _does_ leave a lot of collateral damage, sometimes," he tests the waters.

Danny's face crumples a bit, angry, still refusing to meet Connor's eyes.

"But," Connor adds, "He doesn't _have_ to protect us at all. So I figure if he's trying his best, who am I to judge? I certainly wouldn't want to be out there, risking my neck on the front lines, day after day."

Danny grips his controller so hard, his knuckles go white.

"Do you feel safe?" Connor asks. "With all the ghosts around?"

A huff. "I _live_ in ghost central. The stuff we see here at Casper High? This is kind of my normal."

"…But do you feel _safe._ "

A long, long silence.

Connor's eventually the one who picks up the thread again, voice low and subdued. "Your parents are on the front lines, too, then, aren't they?" he asks. "As ghost hunters, they must be in danger a lot."

Danny's eye twitches a bit. "Is there a question here or what."

"Just an observation," Connor says. "I imagine it would put you under a lot of stress. Worry can really impact your wellbeing, and bleed into other areas of your life."

"So?"

"So your teachers are seeing a notable dip in your performance." Connor says. "I wonder if the two are connected."

Danny fidgets with his left knee again, and the repeated action makes Connor cast a look down at it. It's the same leg with the plant residue clinging to the hem. "Did you hurt your leg?" he asks at last.

"No," Danny says quickly. "I mean yes. I mean—this beanbag is just _super_ uncomfortable, can I sit somewhere else?" The boy is quick to grasp at the change of conversation. His eyes cast about until they land on the sofa nearby.

Deflection. Another red flag.

"Sure," Connor says, willing to let this go, for now. "If you'd like to use the sofa, we can—"

He doesn't get to finish with, _move the tv and then relocate,_ because Danny leans over and grabs the underside of the couch with one hand, and pivots the sofa from the wall to line it up parallel to the tv.

Connor nearly chokes in surprise. That couch is an old, heavy piece of furniture, and weighs 350, easy. Connor inherited it from the previous owner of this office, because the thing was such a pain to move that the old occupant didn't even bother. There's a reason the Tv is on wheels - it's because that couch is a nightmare to move, even with a moving crew. Did this scrawny kid just move it several _feet_? One handed? From a sitting position on the _floor_?

"You good?" Connor asks, a bit shaken, trying to remember if he's ever tried to move that couch himself. Come to think of it, he hasn't tried in a while. Maybe the folks who told him it was heavy were lying for kicks.

"Yeah, that's—better," Danny says, claiming a perch on the cushions, stretching out his left leg. He turns to face Connor. "Listen, Mr. Matthews, just - I know what you're trying to do, okay?"

"Do you, now." Connor asks, trying to refocus. He feels like he's half-forgotten the point of all this, himself.

"My sister's into Psychology," Danny explains. "And she's always picking at circumstances, or events, trying to figure out if I'm "traumatized"," he puts the word in air quotes. "But I'm not, okay? I really don't need someone to figure out where I'm broken, or how I need to be fixed. There's nothing wrong with me."

Connor shakes his head out, somewhat to recollect himself, and somewhat because he can't believe what Danny just said.

"That's not the point of this at all," he says. "Danny—there's no such thing as _broken_ people. There's just people who cope well with the world they're handed, and people who don't."

He joins Danny on the couch, abandoning the game on the floor. Danny begrudgingly lets him.

"Some people," Connor explains, "Are handed really shitty worlds. They have more to cope with than most. Some adapt, some don't. And sometimes, when the danger passes, people who coped well will cling to the habits that kept them alive, even if they don't need them anymore. Therapy isn't about reprogramming people until they're some version _normal_ \- Therapy is helping them live their life the way they want to live it. This space is supposed to be safe for you to express your feelings, your coping habits, come to terms with who you are and who you want to be."

"Well," Danny says, "Right now I don't want to talk about any of that stuff."

Connor nods. "Alright."

"…Alright?"

"We don't have to talk about how you're feeling right now. Or how you're impacted by your parent's professions, or how safe you feel at school. Let's just put all that aside right now and address the big question."

Danny's hands ball into fists in his lap. "Which is?"

"What would help you do better in school?" Connor asks.

Danny almost laughs. " _That's_ the big question?"

"It's today's question, anyway." Connor shrugs. "It's what got you into my office in the first place."

"Yeah, cause Lancer's a busybody," Danny says. "Look, I know he wants me to show up on time to class, and hand in work religiously, and be the perky A+ student my sister was, but I just can't. Okay? Either I'm going to pass, or I'm not. There's nothing you can do to help me."

"Accommodations can be made," Connor points out. "One word to Lancer, and he relaxes his grip."

"And the catch?"

"You seem to think there's a catch to everything, Danny," Connor observes. "How about we try this. You ask for something. I'll say yes or no."

"That'll never—"

"Ask."

"I want an unlimited hall pass," Danny says. "So I can show up as late to class as I want."

Connor thinks for a second.

"Done." He says at last. "What else?"

Danny sputters. "What do you mean, _done?_ You can't do that—!"

"Sure I can." Connor sets him with a _look._ "As long as I don't feel you're abusing the privilege, I can give you full days off entirely."

"…You can?"

"What else," Connor repeats.

Danny seems more careful now. "…I want to be able to hand in late work. I can't say why, I just—"

"Done. Anything else?"

Danny seems a little dumbstruck.

"My conditions are: I'd have to see you once a week." Connor lists. "You'd have to show you're making an effort to keep up with whatever classes you miss. I'd check your progress on homework you're assigned to make sure you're not just putting it off indefinitely. And during these visits, you talk to me."

Danny clams up a bit. "Talk to you?"

"About anything." Connor elaborates. "About where you think you're headed and how effective your strategies are. How you're feeling, if you're up for it. Maybe keep an open mind about exploring treatment options. All I'm asking, Danny, is that you give me your best, and you _try_."

Danny stares at him for a long moment. "Really?" he asks.

"If you need it." Connor nods. "Do you?"

Danny hesitates. And that's one thing Connor can't figure out - why would he _hesitate?_ "What if I—"

They're interrupted by a loud, banging knock at the door.

"Matthews!" The principal hollers, startling them both. She swings open the door, abrupt. "I need those forms I sent you—" She stops, though, as she sees the scene. "Oh—You're with someone. I didn't realize, I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right," Connor says. "Danny—"

Connor turns to find Danny's seat vacated.

Danny is on his feet, halfway across the room, with his back against the wall. He's heaving deep, unsteady breaths, eyes darting everywhere, looking for danger.

"...Danny?" Connor asks, concerned.

"I- " Danny hesitates, shoulders slumping. He looks like he might be calming down from the startle.

And then he gasps, a misty breath escaping his mouth, and goes rigid again.

 _"It looks like she needs your help soIthinkI'lljustgo-"_ the words rush out of Danny's mouth. In a blink he slings his backpack on and shoulders his way past Principal Ishiyama, bolting out the door.

"Young man, you need a hall pass-" she calls after him, in vain. He's already gone.

Connor rocks back in his seat, floored.

So. Hypervigilance. Combine that with stress. Irritability. Possible nightmares. Not to mention, self destructive behavior. ...is he looking at PTSD, maybe?

Christ, _How many_ red flags is that?

Principal Ishiyama turns and gives Connor a frown. "What was that all about?"

He doesn't get the chance to explain - isn't sure _how_ he'd explain, not while he's still piecing the picture together, himself - when the fire alarm spontaneously goes off.

_"Attention, Casper High, this is not a drill. Please proceed to the emergency exits immediately. This is not a drill -"_

"Another ghost attack?" the principal asks above the blaring alarm, seeming to echo his thoughts. "That's three today! At this rate, the children are going to be traumatized just by coming to school."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Connor says. He suspects that _he_ doesn't know the half of it, either.

But he's starting to get a clue.


End file.
